“I promised myself to square up for Sylvia, and I’ll do that, no matter who the man is.” He dropped his rifle to the order and waited patiently for the next move, keeping his eyes fixed on the impenetrable hedges of the Maze. Sir Clinton waited for a few minutes longer. Then he seemed to have exhausted the limit which he had set for himself. “You see the situation?” he demanded, turning to the others. “He’s in there. He refuses to come out. We’ve got to get him.” “I suppose you’re going to starve him out?” Wendover inquired, as Sir Clinton stopped short. “Too risky. He might get away in the dark when night comes on. I don’t say he could; but I’m going to take no risks.” “Then I suppose we’ll need to go into the Maze and dig him out,” Wendover suggested, philosophically. Sir Clinton dissented with a nod. “I’m responsible for the lives of my constables,” he said. “I can take some brands of responsibility quick enough; but I won’t shoulder the liability of sending good men to hunt armed vermin through a maze like that. They know nothing about its paths. He knows every inch of it. It would be sheer murder if I gave orders of that sort. No, there’s a better way. But bear in mind that I gave him the chance of surrender first of all.” Arthur fidgeted with his rifle. “I know the Maze as well as he does,” he pointed out. “I could get him out easily enough if you’d let me take on the job.” Sir Clinton negatived the suggestion curtly. “I’ve got a better ferret than you, my boy. If he gets driven into the open and looks like escaping, I’ll let you wing him. But that’s all you are to do.” He wetted his finger and held it up in the air. “Couldn’t be better. There’s just a faint drift in the air. You’ve got the stuff over by the boat-house?” he added, turning to the constable. “Right. We’ll go across, then. But keep well away from the Maze as we go; for the beast may be hiding behind the outermost hedge trying to draw a bead on us as we pass.” Considerably mystified, Wendover followed Sir Clinton towards the river bank. When they reached the neighbourhood of the boat-house, he was still more astonished to find a number of sacks lying on the grass, evidently filled with some material. Three spades were grouped close by. Again Sir Clinton held up his moistened finger and gauged the direction of the light airs that were blowing. Then, seeing the surprised faces of his companions, he pointed to the sacks: “My ferret!” Ardsley had gone over and inspected one of the bags. He rubbed his finger on the outside of one and then inspected the skin with interest. Then, suddenly, he laughed grimly: “Sulphur! That’s a cute notion. A ferret!” Sir Clinton acknowledged the discovery with a smile that had more than a touch of the sinister in it. “Simple, isn’t it?” “Quite the Mikado touch,” Ardsley commented.